


Kind Of Really

by saruma_aki



Category: Black Panther (2018), Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, Feels, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9666647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saruma_aki/pseuds/saruma_aki
Summary: Tony knew he was going to treasure this for as long as he was allowed to. He hoped it was forever.Or the snapshot of moments leading up to Tony falling for a certain feline.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ironpanther fic, so sorry if they're kind of out of character. I did my best.
> 
> Also, I know some of the things Tony says in regards to Steve's side of Civil War here is controversial among the fans (although he doesn't say anything bad--just blunt truth, really), but please no arguments in the comments. I don't mind discussions; I'm all for the freedom to express your thoughts and for different views. However, if you can't be mature and polite about it, go say your thoughts elsewhere because I won't tolerate anyone attacking anyone else or myself.
> 
> With that said--enjoy!

“She’s dead,” the words sounded hollow but heavy, like they’d still sink despite the echo they sounded with. He could barely feel the reassuring weight on his shoulder as his heart pounded in his chest, his eyes staring sightlessly in front of him.

Past meetings flashed through his mind, memories of an elderly woman lying amongst white sheets, regaling him with stories of the great Captain America while she couldn’t even remember her godson’s name.

There was a lump in his throat and the world swam into focus, but it looked fractured, like it was being looked at through broken glass and then with a flutter of eyelashes his vision cleared, but with it came a flood of emotions and wetness, staining his cheeks and the shirt of whoever it was he was clinging to.

He was pretty sure it was Rhodey—he wasn’t a hundred percent sure, though.

“It’s okay, Tones, it’s okay. You still have me,” the words filtered through as if through water, echoing in his head, but distant all the same amongst the sound of his blood rushing through his ears and his own heaving breaths, but he clung to them like a life line, clutching them close to his heart to get himself to calm down at least a little bit.

“You still have me.”

 

 

 

The edges were orange, quickly spreading, consuming, a black line like an arc leading it. It fluttered from the tight pressure, twirling and falling in a bright light that slowly flickered out, the black line reaching its limit, fading and falling like sand as the orange sputtered out with a small spark.

Glassy orbs reflected the final spark as the blinking red continued in the distance. Smooth black stood out against the counter top and he fingered it before letting it sit there, moving away from the seat.

His limbs felt heavy as he walked from the room in a daze, eyes unfocused as his hand ran along the wall, guiding him to his destination. The room was clean, a soft light glowing from the bulbs and they brightened a bit at his arrival. Everything was organized as it should be and it seemed strange—foreign.

The drawer was slowly slid open, the very slight noise of the wheels on their track sounding like a jack hammer hitting an anvil to his ears. Pulling out the glinting object, he couldn’t help the slightly deranged smile that crossed his face as it winked at him, a small salt droplet sliding down over the edge.

The walk back to the black object was faster, stronger, more assured as he moved swiftly to it, gaze determined. The brightness of the outdoor light filling the room felt like a fire lit under him, propelling him forward in long strides, his arm arcing through the air and slamming down with all the precision and force he had.

The metal sheared through the black, embedding itself into the wood below and standing tall and proud like a proclamation.

He would not cave.

He was done.

The sunlight glinted off the edge of the blade, off the sparking metal, off the crystalline droplets spilling from his eyes like two steady brooks.

It felt like the air was trapped inside his lungs, but like there was none there at all, his hands shaking leaves, his heart made of thundering hooves slamming against his ribcage—of a shield slamming against it over and over until it cut, cut through, cut deep.

The hot, slick slide of crimson, the bright lights around him—brighter, blinding—the roil and curl of his stomach, muscles grappling to heave, to twist, to let everything inside loose on pristine floors. But his limbs were heavy, pinned to his sides and not much use, and the air couldn’t seem to find his lungs which strained for a gasp, a whisper, a sliver.

And he spiraled down, down, down, the world becoming brighter and so much darker, a strange sensation before he was lost to the world, eyes rolling back, long lashes brushing his cheeks like butterfly wings closing up, shielding the great wonder of the windows to the soul.

He blinked. His gaze focused again.

The blinking red light was still there and he moved over, sitting down and picking up the phone, letting angry yells wash over him with the utmost calm, tears still sliding down his cheeks as he drew lines onto the wood with the pain of his heart.

 

 

 

“Sir, he’s here,” FRIDAY’s voice sounded soft after the cut off from his music and he straightened, grabbing a cloth to wipe the oil from his fingers, determinedly did not think of how it felt on his skin, how its viscosity bore resemblance to his life force as it leaked from him for hours, sluggish and wet before Vision found him.

“Tell him I’ll be right up,” he called, moving over to the sink after giving DUM-E’s claw an affectionate pat, hanging the cloth to the side as he quickly washed his hands, looking up at his reflection.

He had looked worse.

Splashing his face, the water hot on his skin, a welcome difference to the cold of cement floor and hissing winds as snowflakes spiraled about just behind him, he quickly dried off with a clean towel before moving to the elevator, going up to the common floor, a smile fixing itself on his face as the doors opened and he met brown eyes.

“Welcome,” he greeted, tried not to show his exhaustion as he moved to the kitchen. “You want anything to eat before we get started?”

“Water, if you do not mind,” the accented voice responded and Tony smirked at him.

“Technically that’s drinking, not eating, but I’ll bite. Sure you don’t want milk, kitten?”

The man raised an eyebrow at him, but he was fairly sure the man was at least a bit amused—perhaps not at the joke, but at his antics. He’d been reliably informed that he apparently acted very much like an idiot by the country’s name-bearer, but his words had no effect on him.

Not anymore.

“So, how’s paradise?” he couldn’t help but ask, sliding over the glass of water and watching T’Challa drink it out of the corner of his eye while he busied himself making a sandwich. He watched the man’s expression sour, the way his brow furrowed just slightly, his full lips pursing like he’d bitten into a lemon—or like someone had made a severe grammatical mistake.

That seemed like something the guy wouldn’t like.

“Toxic,” is what he responded with, looking down at the liquid in his cup with a look of consternation on his face. “Foul,” he added, like he wasn’t sure the first word had made his point.

“I’ve got a file that could have told you that, Kit-Kat,” Tony commented, trying not to think how the man sitting at his counter had his ‘friends’ hidden in his country. He reminded himself it was only because the man felt he owed Barnes a debt. Reminded himself that religiously—he was pretty sure with how often in ran through his head, it could be classified as a religion. Turning around, sandwich in hand, he grabbed a plate before settling down in front of the King. “Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

The king’s expression still seemed troubled, but he nodded and Tony pulled out his tablet, the image of the documents needed appearing in the space between them. “Alright, then; here’s what I’ve got so far.”

 

 

 

“Why do you work so hard to bring them home?” The man asked on one of his visits, looking over at him with a curious expression, he posture relaxed and open, but the curiosity and intellect in his eyes were what really made Tony relax—along with the man’s personality.

There was just something oddly comforting about being around someone who understood things on his level and didn’t have a problem with listening to Tony talk and trying to see it from his point of view as much as he could.

It was—nice.

“Because it’s their home,” Tony muttered, sipping his protein shake with a small frown on his face. “Two of them have families here that, while I don’t really understand why they ditched them, they deserve to be able to see again.”

“Is that the only reason?” T’Challa ventured, seeming hesitant about pressing further and Tony found himself grateful that it provided him with an out—that T’Challa’s hesitance was a sort of symbol that said he could not say anything if he so desired.

It wasn’t an out people like them were given very often, regrettably. Tony was pretty sure he hadn’t ever had the liberty to not disclose something if he didn’t want to before except for when he was with Rhodey, but Rhodey pressed sometimes. From his father’s rough hands and acid words to his mother’s gentle coaxing and weeping eyes to Rhodey’s rough concern and strong fingers, Tony was fairly certain he had never been given a way, let alone a more perfect way, to back out.

But he didn’t want to.

He felt he could share this with T’Challa, although he really had no reason to believe so.

After all, the man was harboring fugitives in his home regardless of whether it was born of good intentions and a sense of duty or not. He proved himself to be a formidable fighter—he had a cat suit made out of vibranium. But Tony liked the guy.

It felt like maybe, possibly, hopefully, they could be friends.

And it was a dangerous thing to hope for, but Tony did anyway because he was Tony and, according to Rhodey, he never seemed to care if he got hurt.

He sighed, setting down his drink, pressing his fingertips together as he stared down at the ground, at his steel toed boot covered feet, contemplating everything in his life that led him to this moment. “Something’s coming, and it’s coming soon. The world, it needs the Avengers,” he looked up, his gaze meeting T’Challa’s, feeling some part of him pleading for the man to understand, for him not to make light of what he was saying like the Avengers had, “all of them. It needs the X-Men, it needs the Fantastic Four, it needs all the heroes of the world and outside it because what’s coming,” he breathed out, wringing his hands together, his mind conjuring up the images that haunted his nightmares, “it’s big and it’s deadly and it’s not going to wait for us to get our shit together.”

T’Challa leaned forward, mimicking Tony’s position. His eyes were still just as curious and open as before, but there was concern lining the edges of his expression, his brow furrowing in the slightest. “And you have seen this threat?”

“Not that anyone believes me, but yeah,” Tony muttered, scrubbing his hands over his face, his heart beating furiously in his chest, his breathing shaky. Maybe it was because he was in his own home that Tony felt himself falling apart faster than he could put himself together, faster than what his public masks could hide. Or maybe it was how comfortable T’Challa made him feel, like maybe there was someone on his side that understood him a bit more—like how he thought Steve had although he blonde proved he hadn’t.

A warm hand on his knee snapped him out of the daze he had slipped into, the haze that had clouded his mind, and the whole world sharpened in response and when he lifted his head to look up, it was to see T’Challa crouched in front of him, his hand on his knee, his expression trusting, his eyes boring deep into Tony’s.

“We will fix this; we will be ready when the threat comes, and you will not face them alone.”

Tony was fairly certain T’Challa had no idea how much the words meant to him as Tony felt himself crumble under the sheer force of the relief that slammed into him at the sound of those words he had been waiting so long to hear, waiting so long for someone to say.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice shaky, his hand trembling where it grasped T’Challa’s and the king turned his hand so that he was holding Tony’s in a steady grip, reaching up and clasping the side of Tony’s neck in a warm, gentle grip that was every bit the reassuring gesture it was meant to be instead of the grip of condescension Steve’s had been.

 

 

 

“So, how’s his highness doing,” Rhodey asked as he grasped the bars tighter, forcing his legs to move, the braces newly upgraded and working better than before.

Tony shrugged, looking up from the walls of holograms he was sprawled between, stylus held between his teeth. The position was so reminiscent of their days in college; it sent a beat of nostalgia through both of them, their minds fighting against the pull of the memories of the past—not all fond.

“Good, I suspect, although he really wants them out of there,” Tony muttered, looking back over at the words before him, scribbling down some more notes on one, altering the wording here and there.

“What? Not as righteous as he thought they were?” Rhodey groused, cursing as he stumbled, holding onto the bars tighter as he righted himself, panting in exertion. A life of military training forced him to keep going in spite of his exhaustion, but he sincerely just wanted to collapse and call it a day.

“Actually, it’s exactly that,” Tony laughed, glad for the distraction from the work for at least a moment. “He says that they’re not the warriors he thought they’d be. Apparently they act with no ‘respect’ or ‘discipline’ and too easily, and I quote, ‘slander good people’s names because their views did not coalesce, but ignore the fact that they also refused to listen to the other side’.”

“His highness sounds pretty righteous.”

“More like childish,” Tony chuckled, smiling in fondness at the thought of his kind of, sort of, he really hoped so, friend. “He said it himself. He’s childishly pissed at their presence there. And apparently they completely disrespected on their sacred structures or something which he’s still pissed about. Apparently he nearly kicked them out of the country for that.”

Rhodey whistled lowly, huffing as he worked his way back the way he came across the bars.

“Sounds like he’s having a blast,” Rhodey chuckled and Tony grinned.

“Why do you think he’s here so often?”

 

 

 

“We did it,” the man breathed into the air and it was with those words that Tony felt all the stress lift off of him and descend upon him at the same time, sagging forward in his seat. “We actually did it,” T’Challa repeated, sounding equal parts shocked, disturbed, and elated, struggling to hold onto his composure because they were still in public, people were still watching them.

“I can’t believe it,” Tony breathed, straightening as he looked at the tablet before him that was showing the official pardons for every member of Steve’s Avengers—because they weren’t his. They were never his.

T’Challa’s hand was warm when it grasped his hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “I told you we would. Now we just have to focus on the being ready part.”

“You really know how to kill the mood, Mufasa,” Tony muttered, but his lips were twitching upwards at the corners as he fought back a grin.

 

 

 

It felt like putting himself back in a cage—like a magic act, the one where they put the person in the box and then stab swords into it. Except instead of coming out unscathed, he felt every bit of the sharp piercing pain as each individual sword stabbed into him, threatening to break whatever fragile sense of self-respect he had managed to dredge up in their absence.

But then there was Peter at his elbow, asking him how he was healing up, completely ignoring the Quinjet that had just parked itself on the landing pad, concern seeming to radiate off the kid who had somehow developed this bond with him out of nowhere, a bond that Tony felt ridiculously grateful for even though it made him feel a little bit pathetic because one of the people he now considered one of his best friends was a fifteen year old boy.

“It’s okay,” Tony responded, shrugging his shoulders with a nonchalance that was only half for show and half genuine. “Helen’s fixing me up pretty well.”

He was pretty sure what Peter did could be called swooning as his whole body seemed to sag in relief and do a sort of dip thing that seemed an awful lot like swooning and Tony just barely held back from reaching out to make sure he didn’t actually fall.

“That’s good. I’m really glad you’re okay.”

“I’ve told you I’m fine already,” Tony pointed out and he could picture the kid’s pout and small frown at his words as he cocked his hip, arms doing a weird flailing thing that Rhodey had likened to Tony’s own weird gestures whenever certain moods struck him around certain people.

“Well, yeah, but it’s different finally seeing you in person and seeing that you’re fine and hearing it while in front of you than hearing about it over the phone or over a video call,” Peter whined and Tony found himself kind of addicted to Peter’s youthful energy and the way he didn’t seem ashamed to admit he cared—something older men still found ridiculously hard, Tony had found out.

Which was annoying because Tony was very open himself about the things he cared about and who he cared about. He saw no reason to hide it.

“Mr. Stark,” an accented voice called and he looked over from Peter’s mask covered face to the king walking over, his walk as graceful as his namesake, his hand extending for a shake and Tony accepted, unable to hold back his smile as T’Challa clasped his hand in both of his, shaking it gently. “You are looking better. Was luck on your side last night?”

Tony sighed, nodding his head, a grateful look coming over his face. “Can’t say I’m a fan of tea, but that really helped. Thank you.”

“It is what friends are for,” the king responded, tone earnest and kind. It set Tony’s heart soaring because it was finally confirmation that yes, they were friends—T’Challa did consider them friends. It wasn’t just some hopelessly one-sided platonic affection on Tony’s part. “Regrettably I have to do something that is not what friends should do and bring back your tormentors into your home.”

It was weird how much seeing how honestly apologetic T’Challa felt about it made him want to laugh, but Tony was just an eccentric person on principle, so he guessed that was why. It was better to think that than to actually acknowledge that it was only due to the fact that it was so rare to have people so openly care about his wellbeing that it made him want to laugh.

“Better my home than yours. There’s nothing sacred in there except the lab, but they’re not allowed down there anymore.”

“Do not remind me. Shuri nearly throttled them where they stood and if it had not been for her self-control I would have let her.”

“I feel bad, but it’s still one of the funniest things I’ve heard to date.”

 

 

 

“Tony, we need to talk.”

He absolutely dreaded hearing words like that, especially from that voice. The captain’s voice—the voice that had so often told him that he wasn’t good enough and pointing out all of his flaws and all of his mistakes that he was already well aware of.

The hypocrite, icon for the States despite his own flaws, and his tone irked Tony.

“No, we really don’t,” he bit back, lengthening his strides a little bit in hopes of making to the elevator with enough time for the doors to shut behind him and keep Steve from following, but luck wasn’t on his side, it seemed—and when was it ever—and Steve slipped in right after him, his blue eyes piercing. He sighed, irritated, exasperated, and every over word that meant ‘fed up’, leveling Steve with his most unimpressed look that never felt very effective because he had to send it upwards in such close quarters. “What?”

“I wanted to say that,” Steve sighed, looking down at Tony earnestly, his blue eyes wide, “I’m glad you’re on our side again, Tony.”

It felt like when Thor’s hand had been around his throat, tight and squeezing and depriving him of oxygen as he dangled limply from his hold, wondering if this is how Loki had felt on Asgard, if this was what drove the man to go to the lengths he had because it had suddenly become a lot more understandable in those seconds, what felt like minutes, as he struggled to breathe, to get a word out.

“I’m not on your side, Rogers,” he hissed, lungs working to keep the air flowing in and out of his nose, to keep the oxygen reaching his cells even when it felt like the elevator was suddenly too small and like Steve was too big and like there wasn’t enough air to fill his lungs.

The elevator slowed down, the doors opening and Tony made as if to step out, Steve immediately stepping out before him, waiting for him to follow expectantly, his brow furrowed.

But Tony didn’t move to follow after him. “I still stand by the Accords.”

“You saw what they did to us. What they did to Bucky in that room—they put him on display. You know that it’s nothing but red tape. You saw how the others were locked up. You saw how they wanted to gun us all down.” Steve’s voice was imploring, almost pleading for Tony to see it from his point of view, and Tony could. He could see where Steve was coming from.

The difference was, though, that Tony had been raised with politics, lived and breathed it. Steve hadn’t.

Tony had predicted possible outcomes with certain people in power and the steps he had to take in order to not let the Accords become everything Steve seemed to think they were even though that wasn’t what they actually said. Steve hadn’t.

“First off, what you saw with Barnes was how the UN deals with a terrorist.”

“He was innocent—”

“A fact we didn’t know at the time because we had video footage of it being him! The UN wasn’t going to take the word of a brainwashed assassin and his best friend over solid video footage. They had evidence, facts. That was worth more than the words of two people, one of which was thought to be directly involved.”

Steve’s brows drew together even tighter, his lips pursing.

“Secondly, the Accords aren’t meant to be red tape. They can be if the wrong people get involved and if you guys go off on your little black ops missions again, but that’s not what they’re supposed to be. They simply put forth a system of accountability, an order for things for people like you that have enhanced abilities, or like Clint and Natasha who have specialized training, or like Wanda who’s a mutant. It holds us accountable for our actions.” Tony could feel his chest heaving a bit, sharp stabs of pain in his chest reminding him too much of Afghanistan, of having his head held under the water, the electromagnet short circuiting. “We are not above the law.”

“Tony—”

“And thirdly, the reason they ended up locked in the Raft was because of you—all of you. Because you went off and proved Ross right which let him do exactly what he wanted to do, let him turn the Accords into the exact thing you thought they were, let what he did be considered okay. The Raft is a prison designed for people with superhuman abilities like Wanda and Pietro and you—it’s designed to hold these super-powered people. Sam, Clint, and Scott should have never ended up there.”

“And Wanda should have?”

He could see the slightly victorious glint in Steve’s eyes, that thought that he won, but it only served to enrage Tony more.

“They all broke the law, Rogers. They all deserved to be behind bars. What they did to Wanda, the collar? That was inhumane, it was wrong. But her being in prison wasn’t. All of them broke the law, all of them deserved to be there. The only difference is that the Raft was designed to hold people like Wanda, but it was not designed to hold regular people.”

“She’s a kid—”

“She is a legal adult, Steve! The only thing ‘kid’ about her is her mental state,” Tony hissed; a tremor in his voice, chest heaving and breaths short, “which, while understandable, doesn’t excuse her actions. My mental state didn’t excuse mine; hers doesn’t excuse hers.”

“That’s different.”

Of course it was different—of course. Because Tony was the guy that always screwed up, who was never going to be good enough in Steve’s eyes no matter what he tried.

“She made her choice; she had to deal with the consequences.” Tony muttered, stepping further back into the elevator. “We have nothing further to discuss.”

The doors shut.

And it was like the room was too small again, but without Steve there seeming too big, it was like the walls were closing in on him and like there wasn’t enough oxygen and he couldn’t breathe, chest rising and falling rapidly, sharp bursts of pain filtering through the haze clouding his mind but only really serving to further it as he pressed back against the side of the elevator, struggling for air.

“Sir, you need to calm down,” FRIDAY’s voice filtered through the speakers, but it sounded distant and he wanted to hiss out that he can’t, that he can’t breathe, that it felt like his skin was too tight and that his insides were too big and like everything wanted to burst out of him in the most gruesome way possible, but all he could squeeze out was a weak ‘help’ that he was fairly certain was barely audible as he slid down the wall, hand squeezing at his chest.

And then the true terror began as he felt at his chest and all he could feel was the press of his dress shirt, him freshly returning home from a meeting he would have preferred to not have gone to, no familiar bump of the arc reactor in his chest and in the haze of the attack his mind went into overdrive, fingers clawing at his shirt, tearing it open, frantically feeling, searching, but his fingertips only came in contact with the rough texture of bandages.

His fingers ripped past them, tearing them away, digging and scratching for where it was.

Where was it?

It was supposed to be there!

And he could feel the digging of shrapnel into his chest, into his heart, cutting away his life slowly, painstakingly as he looked up at the laughing face of the man he considered a father figure—as he looked up at the snarling face of the man he considered his friend.

Oh god, had they taken it?

Where was it?

Where was it?

Where was it?

He was going to die, slowly and painfully, from the slow slice of metal into his heart, embedding itself into the vital organ.

“Tony, stop,” a voice urged, but it sounded far off, unimportant in his mad scramble to find the reactor in his chest because he didn’t want to die like this. He didn’t want to die so painfully. He could feel the slickness of something, but he wasn’t sure what, his shaky fingers slipping through it, unable to find where it was supposed to be sitting, heavy in his chest.

“It’s not,” he gasped, eyes wet, vision unfocused. “Where is it?”

Gentle hands grasped his wrists, not restraining him, but applying enough pressure that his frantic movements slowed, the grip warm and gentle. “You had it removed, remember,” the voice soothed and one of the hands moved one of his trembling hands over to a clothed chest, pressing it into the fabric of his shirt. “Breathe with me, Tony, please.”

He shook his head frantically, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, fingers twitching sporadically against the material of the shirt. “I can’t,” he gasped, voice all but a faint hiss of air, “I can’t breathe.”

The hand holding his other wrist slipped up to rest against his shoulder, weight reassuring and light. “You can and you shall, okay?”

He shook his head again vehemently, but the movement made him dizzy so he quickly ceased the action, swaying to the side a bit, grateful for the support of the elevator wall behind him.

“At least try, Tony—please.”

And he did.

He wasn’t sure how long he was there struggling to control his breathing, to match the owner of the hands’ even breaths, but he guessed it was a while before he finally managed to breathe evenly without having his breath hitch and return to the gasping struggle of before.

“Are you back with me now?” the voice questioned, warm and gentle, the accent immediately setting off a connection in Tony’s mind as to who it was that had helped him through the panic attack. Blinking to clear his vision, ignoring how droplets of tears clung to his eyelashes, he looked up at T’Challa who was looking down at him with a steady smile from where he was crouched above him.

He didn’t look pitying or condescending.

He simply looked relieved.

“You had me frightened,” the king admitted, shifting from his crouched position to a sitting one, keeping hold of one of Tony’s hands, fingertips pressed to the underside of his wrist and Tony was pretty sure the man was taking his pulse even as he talked. “When your lovely AI alerted me to your distress, I don’t believe I really knew what to expect. I have never experienced one of those attacks myself,” T’Challa continued and Tony realized that the man was talking for his benefit, keeping him calm by keeping his attention on his voice, “but I knew a great deal of strong warriors who did get them.”

“Yeah?” Tony breathed; voice whispery and thin.

T’Challa nodded, smile soft and kind as he held Tony’s hand, thumb rubbing gently against the top of Tony’s wrist. “Yes; and they were very strong, reliable warriors. I used to think it odd that such strong men would react in such a way. My father explained to me that,” T’Challa’s eyes flicked down to their hands, the steady rubbing continuing, “these men had experienced great loss and suffering and that the fact that the memories of such events effected them in such a way but they kept going so other people wouldn’t suffer as much,” he licked his lips, pursing them briefly and letting his eyes flick back up to meet Tony’s gaze, “that was what made them strong.”

And in an odd way, it kind of felt like T’Challa was talking about him.

And despite how little he believed the thought that those words could indirectly be about him—he wasn’t strong like that—even though he desperately wished they were, they made him smile.

“Now let us go contact Dr. Cho. I do believe you require her assistance.”

And that was when Tony recognized the slick feeling from before was his blood.

“That’s probably best,” he wheezed, letting T’Challa help him up.

The man refused to leave his side until hours later.

 

 

 

“You know,” Tony mumbled into his coffee, blinking blearily as he sipped from the heavenly drink, fixing hazy, still sleep filled eyes on Rhodey who was sitting across from him somehow completely awake at nine in the morning—what an early bird, “I kind of seriously like him.”

Rhodey rolled his eyes, laughing a little into his eggs as he shoveled more into his mouth, finishing chewing before speaking. “You always did have extravagant tastes.”

“No, seriously,” Tony mumbled, propping his chin on his hand, taking another slow drag of his coffee, feeling the blessedly warm drink slide down his throat, soothing the soreness of his throat, “I think I seriously like him. And I’ve known for a few months now, right?”

“Yup,” Rhodey commented, sipping from his own coffee. “I think this is the longest you’ve gone without jumping someone that attractive.”

“You see it, too, right? I swear, it’s like he enters a room with a halo of light around him,” Tony muttered, looking down at the table, disgruntled. “It matches his personality—absolutely perfect. Too perfect to be with the likes of me,” he muttered, a frown pulling at his lips, completely missing how Rhodey’s eyes shifted up and over his shoulder, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

“And you still like him?”

Tony nodded forlornly, looking down at his coffee once more, taking another gulp, smacking his lips together a bit at the end. “I kind of really do.”

He felt warm breath on his ear suddenly and he jumped, shivering as a beautifully accented voice that managed to somehow make him feel better in a way only Rhodey typically accomplished filtered into his ear, making his cheeks flush, his fingers tightening their hold on his coffee cup.

“Well, I kind of really like you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Remember what I said in the beginning notes, please.
> 
> Feel free to find me on instagram ( @saruma_aki )--I post fandom posts and let y'all know when I post a new fic.
> 
> Leave me some comments down below on your thoughts! <3


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